


The Butcher of Aalquaat 5

by Dorksidefiker



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/pseuds/Dorksidefiker
Summary: Peace is a relatively recent thing between the Galra and the Nalquodi.  There are still some kinks to be worked out.





	The Butcher of Aalquaat 5

Zarkon decided that whoever made the seating arrangements was going to find themselves used as a figurehead on his flagship.

Across the table, the Butcher of Aalquaat 5 was methodically taking apart her appetizer, eating only the tender meats and pushing the breading to one side.

She was small for a Nalquodi, and far older than she had any right to be. Her skin was a faded gunmetal grey, but her remaining eye was bright and she was _watching him_.

Zarkon could not simply ignore her without being unpardonably rude. Leaping across the table and strangling her to death to avenge the thousands who had died by her hand was probably also out of the question.

"Your granddam. Ezetria." The Butcher popped another chunk of meat into her mouth and swallowed without chewing. "She is well?"

_You nearly killed her on Perclz,_ Zarkon thought. _Her hands still ache whenever it storms._ "She is."

"Good. Good. That's good." Another pause as the Butcher pushed bread crumbs around her plate. "Does she speak of our battles. I'm sure your archivists have them well documented, but there's nothing as visceral as a first hand account."

_Constantly._ "No."

Zarkon should not have felt so badly about watching the Butcher's ears droop. "I suppose not everyone is as eager to remember as I am." She made a strange noise, gills twitching. "Still. This is better." She waved a had vaguely. Galra and Nalquodi sat together, feasting and talking and a few even going as far as to dance together, as Blaytz was doing.

Zarkon suspected that Blaytz intended to dance with every other sentient there rather than return to the head table and be caught between Zarkon and the Butcher.

"Mm."

The old woman rose slowly to her feet, and a servant rushed to push a walking stick into her hands. "If you will excuse me, Emperor Zarkon. Partying until the early hours is, sadly, beyond me these days. Do give my regards to Ezetria."

The Butcher should have hobbled away, an old and broken shell of a woman. It would only have been right. Instead, she strode, head held as high as her slight stature allowed, using the walking stick more as a prod than a support.

* * *

 

Ezetria, Dowager Empress of the Galra, Heroine of the Kreigstun Asteroids, loomed over her grandson and Emperor without even trying. The grow lights of her garden made the armor plating on her head glow softly.

Zarkon had always considered his granddam to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, a broad shouldered warrior who's natural armor plating ran from the bridge of her nose down to her trim waist. Not even the fine network of scars could mar the subtle sheen of them, and Zarkon had always been pleased whenever someone noted how closely they resembled each other.

Looking at the poem inscribed on the green house wall, he was reminded that he was not the only one who found Ezetria beautiful.

The author of the poem was the subject of much debate in Galra literary circles. It had been published anonymously shortly after the battle of Vhenkm Pass, just before Ezetria had married Zarkon's grandsire and become Empress. Most ascribed it to the old Emperor, but when asked about it directly, his grandsire had always insisted that find words had never been his gift.

"You've got that look, my boy. Out with it."

Zarkon bowed his head slightly, struggling to find the words he wanted. He did not care to upside his granddam, but he could find no way to put it but the most direct one. "The Butcher of Aalquaat 5 sends her regards." Had it been some sort of taunt? A warning? Had Zarkon missed some secret meaning?

Ezetria let out a bark of delighted laughter. "Ruvin? That old salt sucker's still alive?" She pulled the gloves from her hands. "How is she? Did she look well?"

Zarkon did not sputter. Such things were beneath the dignity of an Emperor, and anyone who said otherwise was a liar.

"The Butcher of _Aalquaat 5_ ," Zarkon repeated, wondering if perhaps his granddam had misheard him.

Ezetria studied Zarkon carefully, clearly taking a moment to choose her words before speaking again. "My Emperor... what do you think _they_ call _me_?"

"You can forgive so easily?"

"Didn't _you_ forge the alliance with the Alteans and the Nalquodi? After centuries of warfare?" She sighed. "I am old, my child, and the idea of true peace in my lifetime pleases me. If that means allowing the past to be the past, so be it. Besides. Ruvin probably knows me better than anyone still living. My dearest foe."

Zarkon considered those words carefully. A foe, often fought, was frequently considered as close as a friend by the Galra, though such an honor was rarely bestowed outside their own people. The histories were full of tales of massive wakes thrown in honor of departed enemies, some lasting for weeks on end.

Zarkon inclined his head in acknowledgement. "My granddam is as wise as she is beautiful."

A gardening glove hit him right in the face. "Flattery never worked for Ruvin, and it won't work for you either. Help me with this, or be gone with that cheek."


End file.
